


This Therapy Goes Both Ways

by IndigoFudge



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Childhood Memories, Declarations Of Love, Doctor/Patient, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Falling In Love, M/M, Medical Trauma, Mentioned Myra Kaspbrak, Pennywise (IT) Exists, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Therapy, i’m so impatient, remembering, the opposite of slow burn, they're both in their early 30s, this seems like it breaks a lot of therapy rules or something
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27128560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoFudge/pseuds/IndigoFudge
Summary: Eddie is a therapist, drawn to the profession because he hopes that by helping others, he can forget his own problems - marital and otherwise.Richie is a new comedian, struggling with alcoholism, internalized homophobia, and the inexplicable sense that something in his life is missing. He goes to therapy.His therapist is Eddie.They talk.They remember.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 37





	1. Richie Tozier Needs Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Tw// alcoholism, therapy talk, s**cidal ideation, etc

Richie Tozier has no need for therapy.

He is functioning perfectly. Sure, his apartment is so messy that he risks breaking his neck whenever he walks through. Sure, he drinks so much that he'll often black out for hours at a time. Sure, he can't remember his childhood or even where he grew up. Sure, even though the only aspect of his identity of which he is absolutely certain is that he's gay, he refuses to even voice that thought. But he's dealing with it. He's coping. The whiskey takes away his impulse control, which makes him funnier, so it's actually a bonus. 

He most definitely does not need some cardigan-wearing lady with expensive perfume and ten degrees on the wall sitting high and mighty in her office, telling him all the ways he's gone wrong in life. No thank you.

Richie Tozier is functioning _just fine._

He keeps a faded Polaroid in his wallet, stuffed between his credit card and some expired gift cards to Burger King. The picture is of himself and some other boy, both in their teens, lying on a bed. They're smiling wider than Richie has ever smiled in his life. At the bottom is written "R + E" in shaky handwriting that Richie recognizes as his own. He does not know who the other kid is, but he's memorized their soft fluffy brown hair, brown eyes, dimples, and yellow polo shirt. 

Looking at the photo makes a lump rise in his throat for reasons he can never quite put his finger on.

Richie Tozier is mentally healthy.

A good chunk of his memories are missing, from age 17 and back. He grew up in a hick town somewhere and has blocked out everything else. He remembers feelings more than names and events - belonging, love, happiness... but also an overwhelming sense of fear. Like when you're walking home at night and you hear a second pair of footsteps behind you, and even though you can't see anyone, it still feels like you're being followed. 

Richie Tozier does not want professional help.

He met someone recently with a Polish-sounding last name and almost choked without explanation, but he probably just breathed in wrong. Circuses put him on edge, but everyone's a _little_ scared of clowns, right? Street Fighter makes him incredibly anxious, but that's just because arcades are full of germs. He's terrified of germs, but the strange thing is he can't recall quite when that fear started, or even why it exists. Getting sick isn't what scares him - it's more what comes along with it. Hand sanitizer, inhalers, hospitals. He just gets uncomfortable around medical stuff. 

A friend asked Richie to sign his cast and Richie damn near started having heart palpitations. 

Richie Tozier may have some issues.

His hands shake so badly that he can barely open his front door. He's lost count of how many empty glasses are in his bedroom. He has to force himself to get up in the morning. 

Sometimes, he wants to die.

Richie Tozier needs therapy.

* * *

"Hello, Mr. Tozier."

Richie can't stop bouncing his leg. 

This psychologist was recommended to him by a friend of a friend of a friend. Not a very reliable source, but frankly, Richie doesn’t care. All he wants is to get this session over with so he can go back to pretending everything's okay in his life.

"Hi." Richie tries to remember this guy's name. "Doctor... Casper... the friendly ghost! Nice."

"Kaspbrak, actually." Dr. Kaspbrak gives the form a once-over. "It says here that you need help with... oh. 'Everything?'"

"Yeah, I'm a mess," Richie says. He squints at the framed degrees on the wall. _Dr. Edward Kaspbrak._ _Fancy._ "I... look. I get scared of all this random shit and it's kind of ruining my life, I guess. I drink a lot, some would say too much."

Dr. Kaspbrak looks up. "Would _you_ say that?"

"Ah," sighs Richie, scrubbing at his face. "Yeah." 

The clock ticks. Dr. Kaspbrak continues staring appraisingly at Richie.

"I don't... really... know what to say. I've never been to therapy before, so this is super weird for me. I don't know why I'm freezing up, though, 'cause normally I talk a lot, just run and run my mouth, you know? People tell me to shut up. They say-" _beep-beep, Richie._ His words get caught suddenly and he has to spit them out. "They say 'beep-beep.' It's a... it's a thing. An inside joke."

Dr. Kaspbrak's face changes slightly. He makes a note of something on his clipboard. Richie expects him to say _'Aha'_ or _'Interesting,'_ but he doesn't.

Silence stretches out. The air is stiflingly hot.

"This is stupid. What do you want me to say here, man? Do you want me to reveal my dirty little secrets, or something? Do you want me to tell you that I'm gay and I've been repressing it my whole life?" Richie waves his hands around in the air.

"Are you? Gay?"

"I-" starts Richie. He drops his hands, mouth ajar in shock. " _Dude._ You've said, like, two sentences this entire session, how have you already gotten me to tell you so much? _Yeah,_ I'm pretty fucking gay."

Dr. Kaspbrak furrows his brow. "Okay." 

Richie sits cross-legged on the couch. "Look, I'm an alcoholic, I'm gay, and I probably have anxiety or some shit. Because the dumbest things will make me, like, _breathless._ I see an inhaler, bam, can't breathe. I see someone with a cast on their right arm, bam, can't breathe. I see someone wearing a polo shirt and short shorts, _bam_ , I can't fucking breathe."

"Do you have any idea why these things scare you?" asks Dr. Kaspbrak. One of his hands moves to his pocket and hovers there, as if he was about to pull something out but is reconsidering.

"No, no idea at all! There's this-" Richie exhales. "There's this photo. I keep it in my wallet, and I don't know why, but the thought of throwing it away makes me nauseous. It's _me_ , as a kid, but there's some other boy in it too and I- I can't remember who he is. He's got a polo shirt on. Even that scares me. Why would I take and keep a picture of something that terrifies me so much?" He opens his wallet and pulls out the photo, studying it, chest tightening like it always does.

"Listen to me, Mr. Tozier."

"Richie."

"Richie. You and I have a lot in common. I have anxiety and struggle with memory loss just like you do. What benefitted me was finding good coping strategies - personally, I keep a journal, and I write down any time something scares me or if I remember something about my childhood. That photo seems to help you. Is that true?"

Tears come to Richie's eyes. "Yeah," he says shakily. "Yeah, it really does. I look at it and I just... even though it makes me feel like I'm gonna throw up, I can also remember how happy I was when it was taken. The boy in it made me smile and laugh like no one else could, I know that much."

Dr. Kaspbrak gets a far-off look in his eyes. "I know what you mean."

"It's... it's weird." Richie frowns. "It's not just the polo shirt, he's also got an inhaler, and a cast on his arm. I feel like _he's_ the reason I'm like this, the reason I'm scared of this shit. Does that make sense?"

"Do you think it would help if you tracked down this boy? Saw where he is now, maybe got to talk to him?" asks Dr. Kaspbrak.

Slipping the photo back in his wallet, Richie says "Actually... that sounds like it would help. But I don't know how I'd do it. All I know about him is that his name starts with E, and that's not a lot to go on. Well - judging by the inhaler, he probably had asthma or something."

Dr. Kaspbrak gulps. "Excuse me," he breathes, taking something from the same pocket he reached for earlier. "You may want to look away if this scares you."

Richie gets a clear look at what was in there.

It's an inhaler.

 _Battery acid, it's battery acid,_ he thinks wildly. His heart thumps against his ribs; his knuckles turn white as he grips the edge of the couch. 

Several moments pass before Dr. Kaspbrak is able to put away the inhaler. He presses a hand to his chest. "I apologize. Please continue."

"Are you okay?" Richie asks, trying to get his heartbeat under control.

"Yes. You mentioned that the boy's name starts with E and that he is asthmatic, and I-" Dr. Kaspbrak laughs humorlessly. "It made me think of myself. Impossible, I know, but I have a clearer head now, so let's change the subject."

Richie whistles. "Not that impossible. You said yourself you have memory loss." He means it as a joke, but the color leaves Dr. Kaspbrak's face. 

" _Impossible,_ " he says again through gritted teeth. "We shouldn't even be talking about this, it's unprofessional."

With trembling hands, Richie takes the Polaroid out of his wallet again and jabs his finger at the face of the mystery boy. "Humor me, at least. Look at this picture."

Dr. Kaspbrak takes a small peek, and a gasp escapes him. "Mr. Tozier, please put the picture away," he manages, eyes wide. "I am not going to discuss this with you further."

"Come on, you recognized it, I know you did. _Please,_ I need answers," begs Richie. 

But Dr. Kaspbrak refuses to acknowledge it for the rest of the session.


	2. Eddie Kaspbrak Needs a Hug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW again for therapy talk, alcoholism, etc.
> 
> Catch me dropping slight miniseries references. (One. It's one reference. And it's the same one as last chapter.)

Eddie Kaspbrak kept one thing from his childhood.

It's a birthday card, made brittle with age. _"To My Edward Spaghedward"_ is written on the front in purple magic marker. On the inside is a doodle of a towering cake, topped with candles - _"You're TEN now! Happiest of birthdays to you!! Thanks for being my best friend ever. Tell your mom I love her <3 Love, Trashmouth."_

Everything else has gotten broken, thrown away, or lost between moves. This card - and the mystery person who wrote it - are too important for that.

Eddie keeps the card in a manila envelope which is at the bottom of a shoebox under his bed. Whenever he has a particularly stressful day at work, he takes it out and reads over it, a smile growing across his face as he scans the scribbled words. "Trashmouth," he'll whisper to himself, testing out the feel of the word. It never rings any bells. 

After today's session with the frustratingly ~~cute~~ stubborn Richie Tozier, Eddie pulls out the card. Angry tears come to his eyes. "Why can't I remember you?" he mutters aloud. "And _why_ does that stupid fucking Tozier guy have a picture of me?" 

He's not an idiot. He can connect the dots; he knows it's likely that Trashmouth and the new patient are the same person. But _why_ and _how_? Did they grow up together, forget everything, move away, and then somehow manage to be in New York City conveniently at the exact same time? It's a pretty fucking big coincidence, after all - Richie Tozier was looking for a psychologist, and _just happened_ to stumble upon Eddie? Ridiculous. Inconceivable.

 _Possible._

Despite what Eddie had told Richie Tozier, it is _possible._

And it's clearly what is going on here.

He puts away the card and opens up Google. _'Young Richie Tozier,'_ he types, clicking on _Images._ His heart immediately drops into the pit of his stomach. The youngest picture that comes up is only from five years ago, but holy _shit,_ it's the perfect bridge between the teenager in the Polaroid and the man that was sitting on the couch today. Eddie feels a wave of sickness crash over him. _Staph infection,_ he thinks. _Have you ever heard of a staph infection?_ And suddenly it's like he's _there_ , in the mouth of the sewers - he can see Richie Tozier clear as day standing in front of him and waving a stick around.

Then Eddie is back, lurching forward on his bed as if he's just had to slam on the brakes in his car. Why were they in the sewer? What was happening? Why was Richie Tozier holding a stick? Who were the two other blurry kids with them? It makes his head pound and throb and feel like a balloon that's blown up big enough to pop. _A red balloon_ , he thinks for no reason at all; it makes paralyzing fear run through his veins.He stumbles to the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror to make sure that he's actually 32 instead of 14. "I know him," Eddie says. "I _fucking_ know him." 

His mouth is dry. 

* * *

The next week, Richie Tozier sits with his hands in his lap. "Before we start," he says, "I'd just like to say sorry for being so all over the place last time. It wasn't very productive and I obviously made you uncomfortable. From now on, I won't-"

"You were right." Eddie fights to keep from crying. "I think we did know each other when we were younger. I've kept this card under my bed for thirteen years, and I never remembered who made it for me." He holds out the card, eyes boring into Richie's face. 

Richie claps a hand over his mouth. "Dude, that- oh _,_ _oh,_ that _fucking_ nickname!"

"Which one?"

"Both of them!" Richie has gone very pale. "The fuckin'- _Edward Spaghedward-_ Eddie Spaghetti! And I was Trashmouth! _You...._ you'd call me Trashmouth! You were my Eddie Spaghetti and I was your Trashmouth!" As he speaks, the words get quieter and quieter, until he's just whispering. 

Eddie aches to get closer. He wants to touch Richie, to hug him and be near him just like when they were kids. ~~He wants to kiss him.~~ But obviously he can't. _Professional_ , he reminds himself. _Keep it professional, you fucking dumbass. You are a therapist. You are straight. You are married. You don't even know this guy._ "Do you remember anything else about back then? I don't."

"I... no," says Richie, blowing out a disappointed breath. "Just that you... well, you let me use your inhaler one time."

Eddie firmly shakes his head. "No. Gross. I would never have done that. That's a guaranteed way to spread the mumps or something. It would have shared so many germs, and no offense, but you don't look like the cleanest person. I am certain that I never let you put your mouth on something onto which I also put mine _._ "

"Mmm, pretty sure you did." The corner of Richie's mouth turns down. "It tasted like battery acid."

 _This is battery acid, you slime_ , thinks Eddie, shooting up straight. _We believed it was battery acid so it was battery acid and it worked and it Burned and it Killed._ "The- the... something happened, didn't it?" He takes a big gasp from his inhaler. It tastes like camphor water, but it never has before, why is it suddenly tasting fake? Why is it suddenly bitter and wrong? And what is the word on the tip of his tongue?

"Whoa, man, you okay?" Richie puts a hand on Eddie's knee, making Eddie's heartbeat flutter. "Yeah, something happened. It made us forget. Whatever it was, it was bad. It.... _It_ was bad." His face sours.

Eddie tries to control himself, but he feels too cold and too small. His entire body shakes with chills that remind him of having the flu; it's nauseating. He launches himself forward, holding both of Richie's hands. Even though it is out of line and unprofessional... his heart is overtaken with a burning desire to _touch._ " _Fuck,_ we gotta- we gotta do something, Rich. We gotta remember." Sweat beads on his temples despite his shivering.

"Oh," murmurs Richie, tensing for a second before giving Eddie's hands a squeeze. "Hey, shh. It's okay. Let's talk this out first, maybe get some- what do you drink? Coffee? We'll get some coffee and talk about it. Take deep breaths with me."

Richie's voice is soothing. It makes Eddie think of strawberry ice cream, of sitting on the curb, of racing to catch the drops around the edges of the cone before they made your fingers all sticky. The tremors gradually stop, leaving heart palpitations in their midst. Eddie focuses on Richie's patterned shirt, on each of the individual colorful stripes. Before long he is breathing normally again. "Thanks, I- I don't know what came over me. I'm very sorry." He pulls back, straightening his tie. _There you go, fuckhead. You ruined it. He's going to find a new therapist and you'll lose all your credibility._

Instead, Richie says "You don't have to apologize. This is scary shit. I mean, we forgot our entire childhoods." 

Eddie might be imagining it, but it looks like Richie glances down at his lips. "Yeah," he says, voice low. "I think I will take you up on that offer to go get coffee. Are you free tomorrow? Or. Whenever?"

"Uh-huh." Richie softens his gaze. "We can meet at Birch Coffee over on 27th street at... how does noon sound?"

"Good," Eddie whispers. "It sounds good." He slowly lets go of Richie's hands and takes a tissue from the end table, dabbing at his face. "Now, let's talk about you."

"Okay. And for what it's worth... from what I can remember, back when we were kids I- I really liked spending time with you, Dr. Kaspbrak," says Richie. 

"Call me Eddie."


End file.
